Dylan Moran is a stealth superstar. At a time when comedians depend on TV to shift tickets this scruffy Irishman avoids panel games and has not done anything of enduring note since his sitcom Black Books, which finished in 2004.
Yet this week he plays four major shows in London. His popularity should make him happy, not grumpy. Yet his grumpiness is what makes Moran so popular. His subjects — pornography, middle age, hipsters, technology — are familiar, but he approaches everything in such an idiosyncratically glum way he makes it all feel fresh.
From his opening “thank you for leaving your computer screens” to his closing salvo on women, who invented the internet by — trust me — buying grapefruit, his wit never dims.
His outlook is often hilariously bleak. We watch cookery shows to distract ourselves from death. What good is romance if it means buying scatter cushions with your girlfriend? Yet the despair is delivered with winning charm.
Moran has always been spellbinding but often frustratingly uneven. There were still moments when he had to sip his red wine while he mentally regrouped, but these brain freezes were easily outnumbered by inspired high-octane riffs prompting wave after wave of laughter.
Touring until October 22. Details here.
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